Warning: violent content, which may be disturbing to some readers

"Mistaken Identity" ©2000 JoAnn Stuart. "Emergency!" and its characters © Mark VII Productions, Inc. and Universal Studios. All rights reserved. No infringement of any copyrights or trademarks is intended or should be inferred. The settings and characters are fictitious, even when a real name may be used. Any similarity to actual persons, living or deceased, or to actual events is purely coincidental and is not intended to suggest that the events described actually occurred.

No good story is written in a vacuum, and plenty of people generously shared their time with me. Thank you to Dawn Valley for the medical beta. Thank you to Pally, for the evil idea. Thank you to Henry, for the encouragement and for helping me think. Thank you to Doc, for you know what. Thank you to Lisa for your suggestions. And thank you to CJ, for the editing, the html stuff and for providing a home on the web.

Los Angeles, May 1977

The scream of the siren shattered the routine of the morning as the squad pulled into the parking lot of the bioresearch facility. A few curious onlookers dotted the lot as Roy cut the siren and Johnny jumped out of the squad, opened the bay doors and grabbed the defibrillator and the trauma kit. Opening the bays on the opposite side, Roy hauled out the biophone and the drug box. Equipment in hand, the two paramedics strode purposefully to the entrance of the building, where a short, red-haired woman stood waiting with a guard, just inside the glass doors.

Further down the street, from inside a nondescript black car filled with blue smoke from the Prima Stolichnaya cigarettes the occupants were smoking, two men dressed in dark suits observed the unfolding drama with interest. One of them leaned forward, raising a set of small binoculars to his eyes.

“Aleksei!” The blond-haired man exclaimed in no little excitement. “Look at the dark-haired one! It is Nikolai!”

His older, darker-complexioned companion replied in mild irritation. “Don’t be ridiculous, Dmitrii Mikailovich. Nikolai is dead.”

“No! Look again!” Dmitrii insisted, thrusting the binoculars at his companion, who grudgingly took them and raised them to his eyes.

“Yes. He does bear a resemblance to Nikolai. But, he is dead.” Aleksei handed the binoculars back.

“You don’t know that for sure. All they retrieved was a burned body from the apartment in Berlin. Perhaps he faked his own death and defected to the West.” Tossing the binoculars onto the dash, Dmitrii opened the car door and started to get out.

“Dmitrii!” protested Aleksei, reaching over to grab his partner’s coat sleeve. “What are you doing? We are here to observe who contacts the doctor. His research has important biological weapons implications, and you know the West will not hesitate to visit destruction on the world. You will jeopardize this operation if you are seen!”

Dmitrii shrugged Aleksei’s hand off his arm and unfolded his six-foot-five frame from the small American-made compact automobile. Flexing his broad shoulders, the fabric straining across the back, Dmitrii walked briskly toward the squad parked in the lot. With a cursory glance at the building, he approached the passenger side of the squad, opened the door and reached inside for the clipboard visible on the seat. Scanning the papers, looking for names, he cursed the Americans and their unreadable scribbles and scrawls on the pages. It looked like so many chicken scratches; nothing as elegant as the handwritten, flowing Cyrillic script he preferred. A brief search of the glove compartment revealed nothing more enlightening. With a scowl darkening his features, Dmitrii snapped the box shut with a flick of his fingers and then forcefully slammed the door of the squad closed. As he ran a frustrated hand through his hair, the painted logo emblazoned on the side caught his eye: “Los Angeles County 51 Fire Department Squad.” That would be the place to start.

***

The woman briskly led the two paramedics through the spacious foyer, past an elaborate security desk, and beyond the bank of elevators, to a long hallway. Although she chattered ceaselessly, the diminutive woman provided little useful information as to why the paramedics had been summoned. Upon reaching a door locked by a numeric keypad, she quickly entered the code and ushered the men through.

Once inside, they were met by a tall, elegantly groomed, foreign-looking blonde woman, whose hair was caught up in an immaculate French twist. She agitatedly indicated that the two paramedics should follow her. “I’m Dr. LaGuerre’s research assistant. He was working on the bioassay of his latest experiment, when he suddenly went berserk.”

“Wait a minute, wait a minute!” exclaimed Johnny, stopping in his tracks. “Are you saying that he was working with some kind of dangerous organism or chemicals?”

“No. He was manipulating the results on a computer.”

“So there’s no bio-hazard here?” An unpleasant encounter with a viral infection spread by a monkey still remained vivid in the dark-haired paramedic’s memory.

“No. None at all.”

“You’re sure?”

“Of course, I’m sure!” snapped the woman as she shoved open the double doors leading to the laboratory.

Upon entering the room, Roy and Johnny encountered a confused and terror-stricken, grey-haired, mustachioed man in his late fifties, cowering upon his knees on the floor. A couple of lab techs in white coats hovered anxiously in the back, unable to get past the crazed doctor to escape through the doorway. As the two paramedics approached the man, he began to whimper. Johnny sat on his heels next to the man, putting on his most reassuring smile, speaking gently and soothingly to the frightened victim, trying to convince him that they were friends, here to help him. “What’s his name?” Johnny asked the woman, eyes still upon the man.

“Henri. Dr. Henri LaGuerre.”

Suddenly, complaining of a terrible pain in his head, Dr. LaGuerre leapt to his feet and snatched a length of copper tubing from an experiment set up on one of the tables. Shouting, “En garde, you blackguards!” while brandishing the metal about, the agitated man smashed the implement down upon the countertop, scattering paper and glass onto the floor. Continuing to scream and wave the ersatz epee in the air, the disoriented man glared around the room. “Cowards! Scurrilous scoundrels! Laches! Canailles! Come and face me like a man!”

Clearly distressed, the research assistant tried to gain his attention. “Dr. LaGuerre! Henri! Listen to me! Ecoutez-moi. These men are here to help you. They’re not the enemy. Ils ne sont pas l’ennemi.” As she spoke, Johnny cautiously sidled up from behind, eyes intent on the doctor’s hand, waiting for an opening that would allow him to wrest the metal rod away from the irrational man. “They’re with the king’s guard. C’est la garde du roi,” she added desperately.

Almost in wonderment, Dr. LaGuerre responded, “La garde du roi? Eh, dis donc.”

“Oui,” responded the woman, while Johnny firmly grasped the copper pipe and removed it from Dr. LaGuerre’s now unresisting hand.

As Johnny stepped back, the man’s burst of energy also drained from him, and he sank heavily to his knees, with his head in his hands. Tossing the implement aside, Johnny once again knelt down beside the victim and began assessing his condition.

“What was that about the king’s guard?” asked Roy as he set up the biophone.

“Dr. LaGuerre belongs to the Medieval Anachronism Society,” explained the woman.

“Oh,” Roy said as he contacted Rampart.

The red-haired woman who had admitted them into the building earlier brought the ambulance attendants into the lab, where the paramedics quickly prepared the now docile and unresponsive victim for transport.

***

Aleksei dispassionately watched his younger, more excitable partner stalk towards the parked squad. He sighed, drawing deeply on his cigarette, then exhaled, the thick, rich smoke curling upwards around the greying hair at his temples. Aleksei Aleksandrovich Grigoryan had been a foreign intelligence agent with the KGB for many years. Retirement from field duty was only a few years away, and then he would be forced to wither away at some desk until he either died of boredom or was assassinated in a round of political cleansing. With any luck, he would be able to remain in America, with his businessman cover as an importer of Russian carpets intact, perhaps still serving the KGB in some capacity.

Aleksei saw Dmitrii slam the door on the red emergency vehicle and run a hand through his hair. Dmitrii Mikhailovich Vasilyev always ran his hand though his hair when he was frustrated. A young and energetic agent, born during the Cold War years, his mannerisms predictably broadcast his emotions. Still, there was no denying the man’s usefulness: his size alone often intimidated many a suspect into making full disclosures, long before his meaty fists could be called upon to coax further cooperation. And his youth provided a complement to Aleksei’s more mature, albeit experienced, espionage skills. As Aleksei watched Dmitrii return to the car, his long muscular legs making short work of the distance, an ambulance came wailing around the corner.

“Well, comrade, what did you find?” asked Aleksei as Dmitrii levered himself back into the passenger seat.

“There was no identification inside. Just a few papers with illegible writing. But he works for LA County Fire Department. We can find out more from there.”

“There is no need, Dmitrii. The man is not Nikolai.” Aleksei picked up the binoculars from the dashboard and trained them on the action occurring at the front of the building.

“Nikolai was a traitor! If he lives, I must know,” Dmitrii said, jaw set stubbornly as he observed the ambulance attendants wheeling their gurney up to the glass doors at the entrance. Nine years ago, Nikolai Nikolayevich Shcherbatov had been a deep undercover agent, on assignment in Berlin with Dmitrii's older and much admired brother, Sergei as his contact. Something had gone wrong - no - someone had gone wrong, someone had betrayed the pair, resulting in the capture, torture and eventual death of Sergei. Nikolai’s body had been burned beyond recognition, along with the apartment the he had occupied as part of his German identity.

Aleksei handed the binoculars back to Dmitrii. “Does that look like Dr. LaGuerre to you?”

Dmitrii grunted noncommittally as he adjusted the focus. “Hard to say. Wait! There is the blond assistant. It must be him.”

“Let us see where they are taking him. This could be a trick.” Aleksei started up the car and prepared to pull out after the ambulance.

**********

Roy and Johnny walked out to their cars together at shift’s end, dirty laundry bags bundled over their shoulders, talking about the calls of the previous twenty-four hours.

“That was kind of funny, that doctor, waving metal pipe around like it was a sword,” commented Roy.

“Well, I think it would be a lot better if everyone went back to swords instead of guns.”

Roy laughed. Although he knew how Johnny felt about guns, this was a pretty far-fetched idea, even for him. “How do you figure that?”

“Any bozo can pick up a gun and shoot it. It requires a lot more skill to use a sword. It would really cut down on crime, too, if everyone had to learn to fence.” Johnny warmed up to his topic. “I mean, I bet it takes years to become good with a sword. And, you can’t do it from a distance, either. I think people take violence more seriously when it’s more personal. There wouldn’t be any drive-by shootings, either.”

“You come up with some really bizarre ideas, partner.”

Johnny shrugged and changed the subject. “I still have a hard time understanding why that one chick wanted to kill herself. She was young. She was healthy. You could tell by her clothes that she was rich. She had everything.”

“Well, I guess it’s true what they say. Money doesn’t buy happiness.”

“Yeah, I guess. I could use some of that kind of unhappiness, though.” Switching topics once again, he asked, “What are you going to do on your days off?”

“Catch up on yard work and whatever else Joanne has for me to do. How about you?”

“Haven’t really decided. Maybe some hiking. Looks like it’s going to be good weather. Or, maybe I’ll just hang out at Redondo and watch the girls go by.” This last sentence was punctuated with a grin. “At any rate, I’m going running as soon as I get home. It’s a beautiful day for it.”

The sun shone in an unusually clear blue sky, and the day did indeed promise to be fair. Roy felt a brief twinge of jealousy as he listened to the carefree bachelor plans, or rather, lack of plans, his friend outlined. Sometimes the daily sand-in-the-shoes grind of family life wore him out more than running the big rescues. But, even though he might look around from time to time, he knew he would never seriously do anything to jeopardize what he had. Given the choice between the pleasures of being single again versus the joy his wife and children brought him, he would choose the latter every time. He knew that finding a deep and enduring happiness didn’t mean that life always offered excitement or that annoying little bumps and bruises never happened along the way. But, still…

“It’s a beautiful day for yard work, too. It’s great exercise. You could come over if you want.” Roy grinned, knowing that Johnny would probably decline the offer.

“Uh… no thanks.” Johnny tossed the laundry bag into the backseat of his Land Rover. “Not this time. Next time, though, okay?”

“Right, Junior.” Roy rolled his eyes. “See you Monday!” He got into his car with a wave, chuckling a little as he saw the mild scowl cross Johnny’s face at the nickname. He knew it bugged Johnny; that’s why he said it.

Roy continued to smile as he let Johnny pull out first and then followed behind. He didn’t notice a black sedan pull away from the curb to trail them as they headed for their respective homes. While Roy turned left at the intersection, the car continued straight ahead, following Johnny’s Land Rover at a discreet distance.

Aleksei drove a few hundred feet further down the road past the parking lot where Johnny pulled in, and then made a U-turn, pulling up just outside the building. They watched Johnny get out of his car, whistling a tuneless melody as he hauled the duffel bag from out of the back. Hands full, he pushed the car door closed with his hip and then disappeared into the apartment building.

Aleksei grunted. “If that is Nikolai, he has gotten very careless. He didn’t even check his surroundings.”

“It is Nikolai. You will see. I’ll go find out which apartment is his.” Dmitrii exited the car, the stubborn set to his jaw evincing his determined belief that this dark-haired paramedic was in fact Nikolai Nikolayevich Shcherbatov, former Soviet spy.

Less than a minute later, Dmitrii returned. “Second floor, apartment on the end,” he said, as he got back into the car.

The two Russians sat in silence for over half an hour until the unseasonably hot morning sun began to warm the car uncomfortably. Thinking that he would prefer to spend the day in the relative cool of the air-conditioned hospital, rather than participate in this foolish pursuit of ghosts from the past upon which his young partner seemed so intent, Aleksei spoke. “So, comrade, what is your plan? We need to go back to the hospital…”

“Here he comes!” interrupted Dmitrii, pointing at Johnny.

The object of the blond Russian agent’s scrutiny jogged out into the parking lot and stopped behind the Land Rover, using it as a balance for some stretching exercises. After a few minutes, Johnny set off down the street in the opposite direction from the car, apparently oblivious to the fact that he was being watched. The two men waited until he had rounded the corner, then without a word spoken between them, they got out of their vehicle and went to search Johnny’s apartment. The two quickly ran up the stairs and made short work of breaking into Johnny’s apartment.

“Very easy. No security precautions,” commented Aleksei, as the door swung open.

Dmitrii grunted in reply, then walked over to a small desk to begin rifling through the papers near the telephone.

Aleksei closed the door behind them. “He doesn’t have very many possessions for an American,” he noted, glancing around the sparsely furnished living room.

“That’s because he is not an American. His soul is Russian. Capitalistic parasites, these Americans,” replied Dmitrii, thumbing through Johnny’s address book. The little black tablet contained the names of several women, many of which had a line drawn through them. Dmitrii snorted. “Evidently not very successful with women.” He carefully replaced the book in the drawer, and drew out some pieces of correspondence, which turned out to be just old bills and a letter from the IRS. The drawer also contained a passport dated March 25, 1968. He opened it up and read aloud, “John Roderick Gage. Born August 28, 1947…”

“The year is wrong. That would make him too young to have worked with your brother.”

The remark earned Aleksei a ferocious glare from his partner. The older man shrugged and then turned to search for a diary or a journal among the books and magazines on a shelf along one wall. As a rule, Russians were wont to record their thoughts in long, melancholy diaries. Pushkin. Dosteovskii. Tolstoi. Gogol. Turgenev. The flowers of classical Russian literature and epic diarists all. Even the traitor Solzhenitsyn kept a diary. Finding none, Aleksei frowned as he began to peruse the titles there on the shelf. Very few books: one about car repair, several paramedic and firefighting manuals, a medical dictionary, and an English dictionary. Several magazines: various sports magazines, a few recent copies of Popular Mechanix, some old issues of Car & Driver, and a couple of worn Playboys. Aleksei briefly investigated the latter before replacing them with a shrug, finding nothing unusual or particularly telling in the selection of reading material. A photo caught his attention, and he picked it up. Three men smiled drunkenly at the camera, holding fish aloft. He recognized the sandy-haired man in the middle as the person John Gage had been talking with in the parking lot after work this morning. Replacing the picture, he said, “I’m going to search the other room.”

In the recesses of Johnny’s closet, he found many pieces of well-used camping equipment, fishing gear and two pairs of hiking boots. Apparently this man was an outdoorsman. Aleksei looked up as Dmitrii came into the room. “He evidently goes camping a lot. That would explain his lack of interest in possessions.”

“No,” objected the younger man, as he began going through the contents of Johnny’s dresser drawers. “I think it’s part of his cover, to throw others off his scent. But, the stench of a traitor is strong, and I will not be deceived.” Pawing through the collection of what appeared to be T-shirts from different fire departments around the country, he reaffirmed his belief. “I know this is Nikolai. I know it.”

Aleksei regarded his partner with eyes narrowed in annoyance. While Dmitrii’s focused intensity could often be a useful thing in accomplishing a mission, this single-minded pursuit of an unreasonable notion when there were more important things to do began to anger the older man. “I’m going to check the bathroom.”

Having found nothing illuminating in that room, Aleksei returned to the kitchen just as Dmitrii emerged from the bedroom. Dmitrii opened the refrigerator. Beer, a carton of milk, a jar of grape jelly, a package of hot dogs, and a few containers of unidentifiable fuzzy matter. Aleksei checked the cupboards and found nothing pointing to any specifically Russian taste in foods. He closed the door of the last cupboard he searched, and took a final glance around the apartment that neither revealed nor concealed anything conclusive about its occupant. “There is nothing here. We have already wasted over an hour this morning. Let us go now, before he returns.”

Dmitrii followed his partner out the door in silence.

**********

The next morning once again found the two Russians parked outside Johnny’s apartment as they continued their surveillance. Since there had been no change in Dr. LaGuerre’s condition as of early that morning, Dmitrii badgered Aleksei into letting him follow Johnny on his jogging route. However, the paramedic chose not to go running this day, and instead appeared with a cooler and a beach mat, which he threw into the back seat of his car.

“Let’s follow him,” immediately suggested Dmitrii.

Aleksei restrained the sigh that threatened to escape. At least his partner wore attire that was appropriate for the beach, while he himself had on clothing that would blend in better at the hospital.

After Johnny pulled out of the parking lot, the two Russians trailed him from a safe distance. Within minutes he had driven up the on-ramp to the San Diego Freeway, and Aleksei had to drive more quickly as Johnny negotiated the fairly light Sunday traffic, passing those who traveled at a slower rate of speed than the paramedic wished to go.

With the windows rolled down and the speakers blasting, Johnny felt like a kid again as he sang along at the top of his lungs. The tape he listened to had been a gag gift from Roy, given to him after a fishing trip during which they could find no decent radio stations while on the road. But, the music was upbeat, if not a little silly, and always put him in a good mood, reminding him of an enjoyable vacation.

While he was just a bit sorry not to have someone else along on this trip to the beach, Johnny knew how to enjoy his own company nonetheless. Besides, if he was lucky, he just might be able to pick up a little companionship for the day.

Less than twenty minutes later, he put on his turn signal and slowed his car to an appropriate speed at the Artesia Blvd. exit, then followed Highway 1 to the beach.

The warm weekend weather had attracted many a beach-goer to the sparkling blue Pacific Ocean, and streetside parking was scarce. He finally found a spot not too far away and expertly parallel parked the Land Rover. Busily gathering up his beach gear from the back of the car, he did not notice as the black sedan slowly drove past. Aleksei drove several yards further down the street and then stopped the car.

“You get out and follow him. After I park the car and find something else to wear, I’ll join you.”

Dmitrii nodded and got out, his eyes glued to his quarry’s every move.

Johnny walked about a quarter of a mile before finding a place he liked on the crowded beach, the growing weight of all his stuff helping him decide that “right here” was the perfect location. That, plus the sight of several apparently single young ladies baking in the morning sun.

He laid out his towel, put the cooler on one end to anchor it, then sat down. He watched some children playing in the incoming waves, squealing with delight and running back up the shore as the cold water splashed their legs. Although the day felt warm, late May was not quite summertime, and the water still carried a definitely icy chill.

As he peeled off his T-shirt and began slathering suntan oil over his arms and chest, he idly wondered if he should have offered to take Roy’s two children off his partner’s hands for the day. But, when his efforts to apply the coconut-scented oil to his back garnered the attention of one of the young lovelies sunning herself on a nearby blanket, all thoughts of Roy’s kids vanished.

“Need some help with that?” asked a smiling twenty-something blue-eyed blond as her eyes briefly swept over his body before returning to his face.

“Sure!” he broadly returned the smile and carefully avoided giving her the elevator eyes once-over. He had already checked her out before sitting down anyway. Handing her the bottle, he said, “Thanks. My name’s John.”

“I’m Michelle.” While she rubbed the oil over his back and shoulders, she said, “I don’t think I’ve seen you here before.”

“I don’t get over here too much. I’m from Carson.”

“Carson? Well, that’s not too far.”

As the pair continued the time-honored male-female getting-to-know-you-shall-I-pick-you-up? ritual dance, Aleksei joined Dmitrii on the beach, clad in a pair of khaki Bermuda shorts, a T-shirt, and a hat. The corner of Dmitrii’s mouth twitched in amusement, which he quickly quashed. Although Aleksei looked like a middle-aged businessman on holiday and Dmitrii fit in better with the beach crowd, the younger Russian didn’t want to do anything that would cause his partner to cancel the surveillance.

The sun had reached its zenith when Aleksei decided to call a halt. “We have seen enough. It’s time to go back to the hospital.”

“Sexist decadence. This soft, rotten underbelly of the West will be its undoing,” sneered Dmitrii with a final glance around at what he perceived to be moral depravity on the beach. People cavorting about nearly naked, others lip-locked in disgusting public displays of affection. Such a scene would not occur in his homeland. Russians as a whole tended to be a modest people.

“Hmm,” grunted Aleksei, momentarily distracted by the wiggle and jiggle filling and spilling out of a hot pink bikini. Decadent or not, the view certainly held an inescapable appeal. Returning his attention once more to the dark-haired paramedic, he considered the man. John Gage appeared to be little different than the typical single American male. He enjoyed sports and women. He ate junk food. He seemed neither particularly clever nor overtly stupid. This man radiated an aura of simplicity, of cheerful good-naturedness. He seemed to be a man without guile. “Let us go, Dmitrii. We are wasting our time.”

The two men headed back to their car in silence. Dmitrii waited until Aleksei had started the engine and pulled out into traffic before speaking.

“I am convinced he is the traitor Nikolai. You are not. Let us kidnap him and find out. If he is, think of what this will mean to Mother Russia. If he is not, we will simply dispose of him. The loss of one more imperialist is nothing.”

“Your attitude is reckless, Dmitrii Mikhailovich,” Aleksei remonstrated sharply. The consequences of torturing, and possibly killing, an American national on American soil would be severe, unless they were most clever. Both sides honored a “gentleman’s agreement” to avoid killing civilians in the homeland during the course of espionage, recognizing that the resulting escalation of reprisals would surely interfere with the business of spying. “Be still and let me think.”

Dmitrii sat quietly, barely breathing. Convincing his older partner was the main hurdle, as far as he was concerned. Sometimes the old dog was slow to take a new bone, but once his jaws had a grip, nothing could snatch it away. Experience had taught Dmitrii that Aleksei was a brilliant planner and strategist, and once converted to an idea, the older man would meticulously prepare the course to ensure their success.

Aleksei pondered the notion of kidnapping the paramedic, finding Dmitrii’s reasoning not entirely without merit. If this John Roderick Gage were in fact Nikolai Nikolayevich Shcherbatov, catching him would greatly enhance Aleksei’s stature and would virtually ensure him a plum retirement position. Both the capture of a traitor and the potential embarrassment to the United States would be richly rewarding. However, if he were not Shcherbatov, both he and Dmitrii would most likely end their careers in disgrace, probably assigned to someplace frigid and arctic… But, even that might be worth the risk if they employed enough cunning. The biggest risk lay in the kidnapping; either turning Nikolai over to the proper authorities or the disposal of John Gage’s body when they were done would be easy.

He reached a decision. “I have an idea, but we need to secure all the details. First, we must have a more thorough background check on both this John Gage and the men he works with. Make sure they are not connected to anyone important who might raise a fuss. Mark my words, Dmitrii Mikailovich: If we are correct, this will be glorious, for you, for me, for the Motherland. But, if we are mistaken, it could be a disaster. There will be no room for error.” Aleksei then proceeded to outline his plan for Dmitrii.

***

The Los Angeles area was home to a surprisingly large community of Russian emigres. Some were political dissidents. Some claimed religious persecution. Some were trouble-makers that the Soviet Union was secretly glad to be rid of. Some, of course, were actually Russian spies. But most of these Russian ex-patriots, who had for whatever reason been allowed to leave the Soviet Union and settle in the United States, were private citizens. Aleksei and Dmitrii stood on the doorstep of one such couple who had emigrated recently enough to still harbor a healthy fear of the KGB.

“Dobryi vyechyer, Gennadi Ivanovich Tanalov.” Aleksei’s lips turned upwards in a smile that was anything but friendly.

Gennadi gaped at the unwelcome visitor on his doorstep in shocked disbelief, as a creeping dread spread from his heart throughout his body. Immediately recognizing this dark stranger as a member of the KGB, his first impulse was to slam the door, past experience having taught him that no good thing could come of this association.

Aleksei took a step forward. “May we come in?” It was a stroke of pure luck to find these two Russian emigres actually living within the territory covered by Station 51. This made the plan to isolate the paramedic on a run so much more elegant in its simplicity. On a level he scarcely dared admit to himself, it seemed almost a good omen to the Russian agent. And while the “gentleman’s agreement” regarding American nationals also included Russian emigres, the KGB agent believed that these two would know nothing about that, and would probably be willing to cooperate.

With an apprehensive glance at Dmitrii, a strong, silent menace accompanying the older, dark-haired man, Gennadi nodded numbly and stepped aside to allow the two men entrance.

“Is your wife, Natalya, at home?” inquired Aleksei with a veneer of politeness.

The need for Gennadi to reply disappeared with the appearance of a short, plumpish woman in the doorway to the living room. “Gennadi, who is…” The words died on her lips as she, too, recognized the uninvited guests.

Aleksei smiled coldly once again. “Natalya Drozdova Tanalova. How nice to see you.”

The couple exchanged a fearful glance.

Aleksei motioned to the sofa. “Please. Be seated.” He selected an armchair perpendicular to the couch as the two ex-Soviet patriots stiffly sat down. Dmitrii remained standing, silent and unmoving, save for his eyes, which tracked their every movement.

“We have a small request of you. A small favor you can perform for the country which gave you birth and nurtured you as a child. The country which has so generously granted you the freedom to come to this imperialistic wasteland in the West."

Gennadi swallowed uneasily and cleared his throat. “What is it?”

“Tomorrow evening, the two of you will be gone from this house between the hours of six p.m. to midnight. Go out. Be seen. It does not matter where. As long as it is a public place where you will be remembered. Understand?”

Gennadi glanced at this wife before returning his gaze to Aleksei. His tongue nervously darted out to moisten his lips. He nodded dumbly.

Aleksei smiled again. “Very good. I’m sure I need not remind you that we were never here?”

“Yes. I mean, no.” Gennadi shook his head.

“Very good. We will be going, then.” Aleksei rose and strode to the door, followed by Dmitrii. He paused and turned around, a shark-like glitter in his eyes as he stared silently at the couple. “Good-night, Gennadi Ivanovich and Natalya Drozdova.”

On the sofa, Natalya softly began to cry. Gennadi put his arm around her and wordlessly pulled her closer, as a trembling born of both fear and anger overtook his body.

**********

The two friends pulled into the parking lot within seconds of each other at the dawn of a new shift.

“Morning, Roy!” Johnny called out cheerfully as he reached into the back seat for his clean uniforms.

“Morning, Johnny. You certainly sound chipper. How were your days off?” asked Roy, still amazed after all these years by his partner’s enthusiastic exuberance for life.

“Great! I hung out at Redondo yesterday, watching the chicks go by.” This last sentence was accompanied by a grin that stopped just short of a leer as Johnny’s hands outlined the shape of the female pulchritude that had paraded before him. “This warm weather brought out a lot of people. What did you do?”

“Mowed the lawn. Fixed the sink. Work, work, work. You know me. I’m a boring kind of guy.”

“You’re not boring. You’re just… married.”

“Boring,” muttered Roy under his breath, as he followed Johnny into the station.

***

The men of Station 51 had just sat down to their evening meal, when the tones sounded. Upon hearing that only the engine got called, Roy and Johnny began to cover up the bowls and platters of food with tin foil and put them into the oven, so the food would still be warm when their shift-mates returned.

“You know, it just doesn’t seem to matter what time we eat,” groused Johnny as he worked. “We always get a call. In fact, I think there’s a connection between sitting down to dinner and getting a call. For a whole half-hour before, nothing. The minute we sit down, ‘beep boop bopp!’ We get a call.”

“You do a pretty good imitation of the tones, Johnny. Ever think of moonlighting?”

“Ha, ha. I’m serious. I mean, what are the odds…”

Roy shrugged and continued putting the food away while Johnny ranted on.

***

The two Russians sat listening to a radio scanner tuned to the frequency used by the LA County Fire Department. “We are in luck. The engine has been called out alone sooner than we had hoped. I will place the call now,” said Aleksei, pleased at the way fortune seemed to smile down on this venture. The background checks on John Gage and his co-workers had yielded nothing worrisome. No one would miss this paramedic. That in itself strengthened Aleksei’s convictions.

***

The tones sounded again. “Squad 51. Unknown type rescue. 125 Penrod Drive. 1-2-5 Penrod Drive. Cross street Rainsbury. Time out 18:26.”

“See?” said Johnny as the two men dropped what they were doing and rushed into the engine bay. The dark-haired paramedic scooted around the back of the squad and opened the door to take his accustomed place in the passenger seat.

“Squad 51, KMG-365,” Roy acknowledged before replacing the microphone. He got into the squad, handed the paper to his partner, fastened his helmet, and steered the rescue vehicle off into the dusk.

“Man, I hate these unknown type rescues,” complained Johnny. “You never know what to expect. It could be anything from a hangnail to a heart attack. Watch this yellow car on your right. Okay. Clear.”

“I guess we just have to be prepared for anything.”

“I am prepared for anything. I just like a little hint beforehand.”

A few minutes later found them on Penrod Drive. Roy cut the siren as they pulled up to a vacant lot, his expression an equal mixture of puzzlement, irritation and concern. “Johnny, what’s that address again?”

“125 Penrod. Maybe it’s one of these other houses,” said Johnny, scanning the neighborhood. Save for a few curious folk peeping out from behind the curtains, no one seemed interested in the paramedics. No one appeared to be looking for any help.

“I don’t see anybody. Call dispatch to reconfirm.”

Johnny had just reached out to pick up the microphone when Roy noticed a door opening at the house next to the empty lot. A middle-aged, dark-haired man staggered through the entrance, clutching his chest, and waved frantically at the paramedics. “There he is! Looks like he might be having a heart attack.”

Johnny called them in at the scene and both men hurriedly exited the squad, grabbing the equipment they expected to need. As they approached the victim, they automatically began a visual assessment. His color looked normal, he didn’t appear to be sweating, but he did seem to be experiencing some discomfort.

“Hi, there. What seems to be the problem, Mr…?” asked Roy, as they entered the man’s home.

“Smith. Ohhh,” moaned Aleksei. “It started after dinner. I had some spicy meatballs. The pain is right here.” He pointed to an area just below the top of the ribcage.

“After dinner, huh? How about if you sit down right here.” Roy guided the man to a chair. “Do you feel any pain in your left arm?”

“No.”

Johnny placed the blood pressure cuff on the man. “I’m just going to get your blood pressure,” he informed Mr. Smith.

“Do you have any history of any high blood pressure or heart problems?” asked Roy, as he set up the defibrillator. Upon receiving a negative response, he said, “We’d like to use this to check you out. Just to find out what might be going on.”

“Sure. Okay.”

“BP 120/80. Pulse 68. Respirations 16,” said Johnny.

Just then, the man belched loudly. With embarrassment, he said, “Please excuse me.” Then, he added in surprise, “Say! I feel much better now. The pain is gone! You’ve cured me!” He pushed the defibrillator away. “I don’t need that. I’m fit as a fiddle.” He thumped his chest for emphasis.

The two men exchanged a glance. “Are you certain you feel better?” asked Roy.

“Yes. Never better. Thank you so much.”

“We’d still like to finish checking…”

“No need. I am cured. You do wonderful work. Thank you for coming.” The man beamed at them.

“Sir, you are refusing further treatment?”

“Yes.” He vigorously nodded his affirmation.

“You may have just had a little heartburn. But, we’d like to encourage you to go see your doctor, if you experience these symptoms again. And, if you need us, please don’t hesitate to call,” said Roy.

“You know, the address you gave the dispatcher was a little off. You said 125,” added Johnny.

“I did? I must have gotten mixed up. I was rather upset.”

Johnny started to gather up the equipment, while Roy got out the MICU refusal form. “If we could just get you to sign this form, saying you refused further treatment?”

“But, of course.” Aleksei took the paper. “Now, let me see… where are my glasses?” The man wandered off toward the rear of the house.

Roy and Johnny exchanged a grin, glad this unknown type rescue had turned out to be essentially nothing. “I’ll take this stuff back out,” said Johnny, hoisting the defibrillator and pulling the oxygen behind him as he headed out the door.

Mr. Smith paused slightly and glanced back to see the dark-haired paramedic leave the house. It didn’t matter whether he picked up Nikolai or if Dmitrii did it. The most important thing was to separate the two paramedics. He nodded in satisfaction; everything was going not only according to plan, but according to best-case scenario. He permitted himself a brief smile of satisfaction before disappearing through a doorway into a room at the end of the hall.

“Okay. I’ll be right there.” Roy craned his neck to look down the hall, to see if he could spot the victim who wasn’t. “Mr. Smith?” he called out.

“I’m still looking for my glasses!” came the voice from the back of the house.

Johnny put the defibrillator into the bay, and was just reaching down for the oxygen when he sensed someone behind him. He turned around and found himself staring at the business end of a gun, held by a very large blond man whose features were obscured in the darkness.

Johnny raised his hands in the universal sign for surrender, feeling his adrenaline start to kick in. “We don’t carry a lot of drugs…”

The man grinned suddenly. “We’re not after drugs. We’re after you. Over here.” He motioned to a car parked in the shadows behind the squad.

Taking his eyes off the big man for an instant, Johnny glanced over at the house where Roy still was. The call had seemed a little odd. Now he knew why. Dmitrii used the second’s inattention to close the distance and shove the gun into Johnny’s side.

“Now, Nikolai.”

Startled, Johnny looked around for another person, expecting to see someone else come out of the darkness. “Wait! Wait! What do you want!” he protested, as the blond giant manhandled him over to the sedan.

Dmitrii opened the rear door of the automobile. “Get in!” He forced Johnny’s head down, and delivered a blow to the base of his skull. Before the paramedic’s knees even began to buckle, the Russian grasped him under the arms and in one smooth, practiced move, shoved him into the back seat. After making short work of binding the unconscious man’s hands behind his back with duct tape, Dmitrii hurriedly crossed over to the driver’s side, got in, and drove away.

Meanwhile, back inside the house, Aleksei had finally located his glasses. He made a show of perusing the document before signing it. “Never sign anything you haven’t read, isn’t that right, Mr…?”

“DeSoto. Roy DeSoto.” Roy smiled at the man.

“Here you go.” He handed the form back. “Can I help you carry this back?”

“No, that’s okay…”

“Oh, but I insist.” Aleksei picked up one of the boxes on the floor and followed Roy outside, firmly shutting the door behind him.

Roy looked around in mild alarm when they reached the squad and Johnny was nowhere in sight. Where could his partner have gone to?

“Mr. DeSoto?”

Roy glanced back at the victim, and then froze as he saw the gun pointed at him. “We don’t carry a lot of drugs…”

“Put these boxes away and get into your vehicle.”

Roy tried to swallow, his mouth suddenly gone dry as his heart rate started soaring. He put the boxes into the equipment bays as the man with the gun instructed, then turned around to face him. “What do you want?”

Aleksei motioned to the driver’s seat with the weapon. “Get in.” He then walked around the front of the squad and got into the passenger side, aiming the gun at Roy the whole time. Shoving the weapon low against Roy’s side, he said in a deceptively soft voice, “Extinguish the emergency lights. Drive where I tell you. And, if you value the life of your friend, you’ll do exactly what I say.”

Roy tried to swallow past the lump in his throat and nodded. Clenching his teeth, as if that would help stem the trembling in his hands, he started up the engine and pulled away from the curb into the now dark night.

“Turn off that radio,” ordered the gunman as Roy turned onto a busy main road. They drove in silence for what seemed to Roy to be an interminable amount of time, the gunman speaking only to give directions, until they arrived at a rather run-down section in the commercial district. The dark-haired man ordered the paramedic to pull the squad around the back of a darkened and apparently deserted two-story building. Yellow signs posted on the doors and windows bore notice of the building’s condemnation and pending destruction.

Glancing around as he turned off the engine, Roy saw a big, blond man stand and straighten from near the open back door of another car. As that man crossed the distance to the passenger side of the squad, Aleksei instructed Roy to turn off the headlights as well. Roy listened in apprehension as a conversation ensued in a language he did not know.

“Any complications?” asked Aleksei.

“No. Nikolai is unconscious in the back.” Dmitrii indicated the sedan he had just left with a jerk of his head.

“What happened to your eye, Comrade?” With just a hint of a smile, Aleksei indicated the nascent shiner gracing his partner’s left eye.

Dmitrii grunted. “Nikolai had already awoken when I tried to pull him out of the car just before you arrived. He kicked me when I opened the door.”

“I thought you said he was unconscious.”

“He is, now.”

Alesei frowned. I hope you didn’t hit him hard enough to seriously incapacitate him.”

“Of course not. Those pains will be the least of his worries.”

“Very well,” Aleksei nodded. “We have work to do.” While he had initially not planned to utilize both the squad and the other paramedic, further analysis revealed the benefits of not leaving the big, conspicuous, red rescue squad and a lone paramedic in so obvious a location. Plus, taking the squad carried the added bonus of the various medical equipment and supplies. And, they would utilize the other paramedic to help elicit the truth from the man who wore the face of Nikolai Nikolayevich Shcherbatov. “We need to conceal this vehicle and get inside.”

The man in the squad with Roy poked the barrel of the gun into the paramedic’s side. “Get out. Help push that bin behind this vehicle.”

Roy could do nothing but comply. As he and Dmitrii pushed and shoved the unwieldy Dumpster into place, Roy tried to look into the backseat through the open door of the other car, but the dark shadows afforded him no view into the interior. Back at the squad, Aleksei had opened the bays and was examining the various boxes and pieces of equipment. He hefted the oxygen and then called to Roy. “DeSoto! Come here and help carry these things.”

Aleksei pointed to the defibrillator unit, the drug box and the trauma kit with his gun. “Bring those along.” Roy picked up the three items and stood uncertainly, not understanding exactly what the man wielding the weapon had in mind. The answer was soon made clear as the blond man joined them with an unconscious Johnny slung across his shoulder. “Follow him,” came the terse command from the dark-haired man.

The man in the lead opened the door and started up the dark staircase to a dim light at the top. Roy followed closely behind, with the third man bringing up the rear. As they reached the top, Roy noted that the interior of the building had been fairly well gutted. He put the equipment down where he was directed, but had no time for any questions as he found himself being bound and gagged with an astonishing swiftness and efficiency. The big blond deposited him and some of the equipment behind one of the few remaining walls, and then disappeared around the other side. A few minutes later the blond returned with the IV box and the oxygen, then left Roy alone in the dark again.

***

“They must be out on a run,” commented Cap as he noted the absence of the squad when the engine backed in.

“I hope they put the food into the oven,” said Marco. “I hate cold fried chicken.”

“I hope they saved us some,” grumbled Chet.

Cap surveyed the evidence of a hasty departure on the table. “Looks like they got called out just after we did. At least they put most of it in the oven.”

“Good. Looks like Gage didn’t have time to eat it all before we got back.”

A few minutes later, Cap heard the dispatcher inquire, “Squad 51, what is your status?” He half-listened, expecting to hear that the paramedics were either at Rampart or that they were available. When the dispatcher repeated the query, with no response from Squad 51, Cap looked over at the radio call center accusingly, as if that were the reason for the lack of a reply.

The rest of the men at the table paused in mid-bite as the significance of the unwelcome silence sunk in. Cap was already dialing the number for Dispatch before any of them could speak. He shushed them with his hand as he talked with someone on the other end. Cap replaced the receiver on the hook grimly and turned around to face three-fifths of his crew. “They never reported back to Dispatch or in to Rampart after their last run. It’s been just over half an hour since they arrived on scene. Dispatch is sending the police over to check it out.”

Four pairs of eyes exchanged uneasy and worried glances. Cap sat back down at the table, glancing once more at the call station before speaking. “It’s probably nothing.” He picked up his fork, gave the now tepid mashed potatoes a poke and continued, “Maybe just a loose wire on the radio or something. I bet they pull in here any minute.”

“Yeah, Gage is a loose wire,” snorted Chet.

Marco snickered. “Or, maybe he’s trying to fix the radio. Like the TV.”

“What makes you think this delay is John’s fault?” asked Cap, pushing back his chair and picking up the plate with his unfinished food.

Chet shrugged. “I don’t know. Just making conversation.”

“Yeah. Well. We’ll find out soon enough. Let’s get these dishes cleaned up, and save a plate for Roy and John.”

To Part Two

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